Smoke and Joey rested their broncs as they punched out empty cartridges and reloaded their pistols.

  "How many left, do you think?" Smoke asked.

  Joey pursed his lips for a moment, thinking. "If'n he's goin' by the rules the rebels used to follow, he's got eight sentries surroundin' his camp. Two on each point of the compass."

  Smoke slipped his pistol into his holster. "That means we've got four more to deal with."

  Joey nodded. "At least."

  Louis Longmont was the first to spy the wagon. "There it is," he called to the others, pointing up the road.

  A man could be seen driving a buckboard, a saddled horse following along behind on a dally rope.

  Monte Carson was the first to speak as they signaled the wagon to a halt. "Howdy, mister. My name's Monte Carson, an' I'm the sheriff around here. What's in the back of your wagon?"

  The driver looked worriedly around at the faces of the men surrounding him. "Uh, some supplies from Garrett's General Store over in Pueblo."

  "What kind'a supplies?" Louis Longmont asked.

  The man stared at Louis Carbone and A1 Martine, who looked like Mexican bandidos with their large, silver spurs, crossed bandoliers of shells on their chests, and twin Colt pistols on their hips.

  "What business is it of yours?" he asked.

  A1 drew his pistol and crossed his arms on his saddle horn, leaning forward, the barrel of the gun pointing down. "Señor, the man he asked you very nice. Why you not answer his question, muy pronto? "

  "I'm carryin' dynamite, gunpowder, an' about two hundred boxes of shells, forty-fours, forty-fives, an' a few thirty-six caliber bullets."

  Monte let his face look puzzled. "You figurin' on goin' to war, mister?"

  "No. These are for a Mr. Cain, in the town of Fontana," the driver answered belligerently. "Now, why don't you just let me ride on into town and do what I'm bein' paid to do?"

  "I can't do that," Monte said. "The town of Fontana is under quarantine."

  "Quarantine?" the man asked.

  "Yeah. Seems they's a disease in that town that's gonna kill everybody in it," said Pearlie, a smirk on his face. "What is it? The pox?"

  "No," answered Louis Longmont. "It is a disease called greed. It is being spread by Lazarus Cain, and it has infected everyone in the town."

  "Greed ain't fatal," the driver persisted, not getting the joke.

  Al Martine cocked his pistol with a loud metallic sound. "It is in this case, my friend," he growled.

  "Uh, if you gentlemen will allow me, I'll just get on my horse and head on back to Pueblo."

  "That'll be just fine," Monte said. He smiled, looking around at the group of men with him. "My friends and I will make sure Mr. Cain gets all of the bullets and dynamite in your wagon, one way or another." He hesitated and grinned at the others riding with him. "You have my word on it."

  Nate Bridges and Will Calloway were riding sentry for Lazarus when Nate stopped his horse and pulled a small canvas sack out of his shirt pocket and began to build himself a cigarette. Will stopped his horse, too, and pulled out his canteen to get a drink of water.

  As Nate dipped his head to lick the paper around his tobacco, there came a sudden sound from behind him, like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef, and Nate back-flipped off his horse.

  "What the hell?" Will said, glancing down at his partner as a booming sound echoed from across the valley.

  He saw a spreading stain of crimson on the front of Nate's shirt, then looked back over his shoulder in time to see a puff of smoke come from a tiny figure on horseback over fifteen hundred yards away.

  He jerked his reins and whirled his horse, saving his life as the bullet from Joey's Sharps Big Fifty hit him in the shoulder.

  The force of the slug almost unseated Will, but he managed to keep his balance and leaned over the neck of his mount and spurred it toward Fontana as fast as the animal could run.

  "Damn! Missed the second one," Joey muttered as he reloaded the Sharps.

  "That might not be so bad," Smoke said. "Let him tell Cain what happened, and when the other sentries don't show up and he realizes what happened to them, it'll cause him some confusion."

  "Why is that good? I thought we wanted the element of surprise."

  "We did. But that wasn't going to happen with us having to kill all the sentries. Sooner or later he was going to realize he was under attack, anyway. Now we'll let him stew on it a while, wondering just who and how many are after him."

  "Well, if that's the plan, then we need to git those other two sentries pronto," Joey said.

  After he put the Sharps in his saddle boot they rode north, the direction of the remaining two sentries.

  Bill Boudreaux and Francois Tibbido, two friends on the run from New Orleans for killing five men in a riverboat gambling feud, were riding the northern sentry post.

  "Say, Bill," drawled Francois, "here come two men." He pointed off to the west.

  "Uh huh," Bill replied.

  "What you want to do?"

  "Let them come. Then when they get here we kill them, mon ami," Bill said.

  "Why not just tell them to leave?" Francois asked, his face glum.

  " 'Cause Monsieur Cain, he be plenty mad if he find out. He say kill anyone who come, so we kill these two mens." Bill hesitated, then asked, "Unless you want to go to Monsieur Cain an' tell him you be too soft for this job?"

  "No! I agree. They must die."

  As soon as Smoke and Joey got within thirty yards of the two men they were approaching, they saw the men go for their guns.

  Without hesitating, Smoke and Joey filled their hands with iron, firing on the two sentries before they could clear leather.

  Smoke hit Bill Boudreaux in the heart and throat with two shots that sounded almost simultaneous. The bullets tore into Boudreaux, killing him before he had time to scream.

  Joey's shots hit Francois in the stomach and left arm, doubling him over his saddle horn with a loud grunt.

  After a few seconds, he toppled to the side to fall to the ground moaning in pain and writhing in the dirt.

  "Help me . . . oh dear God, help me . . ." he cried.

  Joey rode over to look down at the dying man. "You got a gun. Help yourself," he said. Then he and Smoke rode off toward Fontana's town limits, where they were to meet with their friends.

  Twenty-nine

  Will Calloway made it to just in front of the Dog Hole Saloon in Fontana before impending shock from loss of blood caused him to faint and fall off his horse.

  Donny Donnahue was just coming from the outhouse when he saw Will hit the dirt.

  "Hey, everbody, come quick!" he yelled as he ran to help the fallen man.

  When he got next to Will, Donny saw almost his entire shirt soaked with blood. "Jesus," he muttered, having never seen anyone lose that much blood and survive.

  Several cowboys burst out of the batwings of the Dog Hole and ran to stand over Will. Finally, Three-fingers Sonny Torres, who had seen and treated more gunshot wounds than most doctors, knelt next to Will and pulled out a large knife. He stuck the blade in the front of Will's shirt and sliced it open.

  After Torres peeled off the shirt, several of the men standing watching gave low whistles. There was a hole as big as a man's fist in the front of Will's shoulder. Most of the bleeding had stopped or at least slowed to a slow trickle, and there were no arterial spurters.

  Sonny Torres rolled Will up on his side and looked at his back.

  "Here's where the bullet enter," he said, pointing to a small hole just behind Will's shoulder, next to his shoulder blade.

  He let him roll back. "And that is where she exit," he said, indicating the huge hole in the front of Will's chest.

  "What the hell kind'a gun did that?" asked Donny.

  Torres shrugged. "A large calibre, maybe a buff'lo gun of some sort, like a Sharps."

  Lazarus Cain came striding through the crowd of men, parting them with his hands as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

  "What the hell's goin' on here?" he asked.

  " 'Pears one of our men went an' got hisself shot," answered Willie Bodine.

  "Is that Will Calloway lyin' there?" Lazarus asked.

  "Yes sir," answered Donny. "I's just comin' outta the shitter when I saw him fall off'n his horse."

  Torres glanced up from where he still kneeled next to Will. "Looks like he was shot with a long gun of some kind, Mr. Cain. Prob'ly a Sharps or somethin' like it."

  "Damn!" Lazarus stepped back and looked around the town. "Has anyone seen any of the other sentries? Who was ridin' with Will, anyway?"

  "I believe it was Nate Bridges," Billy Baugh drawled in his low, Southern accent. "Leastways, I seen the two of 'em ridin' outta town together this mornin'."

  Lazarus started pointing. "I need some men to ride out and check on the sentries. Wheeler, you ride north. Gonzalez, you take the south end. Tucker, you go east, and Samuels, I want you to ride to the west."

  He hesitated. "Men, I don't know if this means anything or not, but ride with your guns loose and watch your backsides. We may have some problems comin' our way."

  Within two hours, Lazarus had gotten the bad news and was having a meeting with his most trusted men in the Dog Hole. They were seated at their favorite table in the corner, and several bottles of whiskey were being passed around.

  Lazarus looked at his men. "We've got some trouble. The men I sent out found every one of our sentries dead, bodies scattered all over the countryside."

  "Were all of 'em kilt with long guns?" asked Curly Joe Ventrillo.

  Lazarus shook his head. "No. It appeared as if some were shot at close range with pistols."

  "Did they find any other bodies, other than our chaps?" asked Jeremy Brett.

  Lazarus shook his head slowly.

  "That means whoever did this is good," said Blackie Jackson. "Those sentries were hard men. I don't see some pilgrims ridin' up an' killin' ever one without getting a least a little shot up."

  "You're right, Blackie. Whoever is out there is a force to be reckoned with."

  "Cain't hardly be the army, then," opined Pig Iron Carlton. "Them boys are so green they'd've probably shot one or two of their own men theyselves."

  "No, I don't think this is the authorities," said Lazarus, a thoughtful expression on his face as he stared out the window. "If it was the army or marshals, we'd've heard from them by now."

  He wagged his head. "This is something different."

  "Well then, who could it be, boss?" asked Tom "Behind the Deuces."

  "I don't know."

  "Do you suspect it could be Smoke Jensen? Maybe Joey Wells warned him, after all," said King Johannson, absently fingering the handle of the machete hanging on his belt.

  Lazarus frowned. "I doubt it. If Jensen knew we were comin' an' that we had over fifty men, why wouldn't he just notify the army or the territory marshals? There'd be no need for him to even get involved."

  Jeremy Brett removed the Colt pistol from his shoulder holster and flipped open the loading gate as he began to check his loads. "I fear you may have underestimated this Jensen gentleman. From what I have heard and read, he is a man who does not suffer tribulation well."

  "What's that supposed to mean, Jeremy?" asked Lazarus. "Speak English, will you?"

  Jeremy smiled. "I believe we were on Mr. Jensen's ranch the day we arrived here."

  "So?"

  "Do you remember what happened that day?"

  Lazarus thought a minute, then looked slowly up at Jeremy. "We shot some young ranchhand."

  "It is merely my supposition that perhaps Mr. Smoke Jensen did not take kindly to us killing one of his men. Perhaps this is his way of telling us that."

  "Do you really think a man of Jensen's reputation would go to war over losing one of his hired hands?" asked Lazarus.

  "From what I've heard, though the stories are admittedly exaggerated, Jensen would go to war if you scuffed his boots."

  Lazarus rubbed his chin whiskers as he thought. "If this is Jensen an' his men, it won't be so bad. As a matter of fact, it's probably better if he comes to us rather than us fightin' him on his own ground."

  "What do you mean?" asked Curly Joe.

  "This way there won't be no chance of us ridin' into no traps or ambushes."

  "Wonder how many men he's got ridin' with him," said Blackie Jackson.

  "It really doesn't matter, old chap," said Jeremy Brett. "Once they ride into town, they're all as good as dead."

  "I want you men to get the boys scattered out all over town," ordered Lazarus. "Have 'em get ready for an attack. Post some on roofs, some in high placed rooms where they have a good line of fire. You know the drill. Tell 'em to get ready. Smoke Jensen's coming to town, and we're gonna throw him a party."

  Thirty

  Smoke and Joey circled around Fontana until they found where their friends were waiting. They'd made a campfire and were cooking some beans and fatback and heating up some biscuits Sally had sent along in a paper sack.

  Louis Longmont looked up from his coffee cup and smiled. "I see the sentries were no match for the team of Jensen and Wells."

  "Not even close," Joey said. "Them boys just thought they knew how to fight 'til they ran into a twister called Smoke Jensen."

  Smoke inclined his head at Pearlie, who was sitting on his haunches next to the fire, a plate piled high with food on his knees. "I might'a known you boys would be eating, since Pearlie's riding with you."

  "Golly, Smoke," Pearlie mumbled around a mouthful of food, "ya just never know when you're gonna next git a chance to eat when you're fightin' outlaws an' such. I figgered it'd be best to eat while there weren't nothin' goin' on." Smoke walked over to the kettle on the trestle over the fire and scooped out a helping for himself. "Don't worry, Pearlie, I was just funning with you. It is always a good idea to eat before a fight. You're right. There's no telling just how long we're going to be tied up in this little fracas."

  Joey built himself a cigarette and stuck it in the side of his mouth, then proceeded to drink coffee without disturbing the butt.

  "We may have a little trouble, boys," he said.

  "How's that, Joey?" Sheriff Monte Carson asked.

  "One of the sentries got away. He was carryin' some of my lead in him, but we figure he might've made it back to Fontana to warn the others we're comin'."

  "Damn!" said Louis Carbone. "Es muy malo!"

  Longmont shrugged. "It's not all that bad, Louis. In fact, it really won't make a hell of a lot of difference. Even if they suspect someone has targeted them, they won't know who or how many, nor will they have much time to make preparations for our arrival."

  Smoke nodded. "That's the way I figure it, Louis. In fact, it might be better if they have a little time to worry about just who's on their trail."

  "Yeah," Monte Carson agreed. "Worried men don't always think as good as men without a lot on their mind." He smiled a grim smile. "I'd a lot rather trail a man who knows he's bein' trailed an' is spendin' a lot of his time lookin' back over his shoulder instead of thinkin' 'bout how he can get the drop on me."

  Smoke walked over to the wagon and began to peer inside it. "What've we got here?"

  Longmont stepped over to lean on the edge of the buckboard. "Looks like Cain was planning on going to war with you and the town of Big Rock, Smoke. He's got enough ammunition and gunpowder and dynamite in this wagon to cause quite a ruckus."

  Cal added, "If he'd managed to get it, that is."

  "You boys did a good job," Smoke said approvingly. "If Cain had been able to acquire this wagon we'd've had our hands full, all right."

  "Now, our only problem," Monte said, "is to figure out how we can make the best use of this stuff ourselves."

  Smoke's lips curled up in a wide grin. "Oh, I think I have some ideas on that subject, Monte."

  He took his sketch of Fontana out of his saddlebag and spread it on top of the boxes in the buckboard. With a pencil, he pointed to various areas of the town as he talked, dividing up his forces as commanders had been doing before upcoming battles for centuries.

  "Louis," he said, addressing Carbone, "you and A1 are used to working as a team. I want you two to approach the town from the south. Take as much dynamite as you can carry, tied together two sticks at a time. When you begin your approach, light a cigar and keep it in your mouth to set the fuses off when you're ready to toss the dynamite."

  "Cal, I want you and Pearlie to stay together. You're still not up to full strength, so I don't want you to try anything too strenuous. I'm gonna station you on the road out of town, in case some of the outlaws decide it's getting too. hot in Fontana and try to make tracks for someplace cooler."

  Cal's face fell. "You .mean you're gonna keep me outta the action so I won't get shot again, don't ya?"

  Pearlie turned to face Cal. "That's not it at all, Cal. Smoke's got to put each man where he can do the best for the team, 'cause we're so outnumbered."

  "Pearlie's right, Cal. Your job is just as important as anyone else's. If any of the gunnys get away, they're liable to come back later and do us damage. Your job, and Pearlie's, is to make sure that doesn't happen."

  Smoke turned to the remainder of the men. "Louis, I'd like you and Monte to attack from the north, and Johnny and George to come in from the east."

  He hesitated. "Joey and I will go in first from the west, from the back of town."

  "What do you mean, go in first?" Monte asked.

  Smoke pointed to the tins of gunpowder lying in the buckboard. "We're gonna sneak in and plant a few of those where they'll do the most good. Your signal to attack will be when you see them go off."

  "What if Cain's men manage to get you before that happens?" Johnny North asked.

  Joey shrugged. "Then, you'll hear the gunshots. Either way, it'll be time for you to do your best to blow those bastards to hell and gone."